‘That it was definitely the crossbow that killed him. The wound would have been instantly fatal. He fell from his horse as he died, and a hoof probably caught his head on the way down.’
‘Someone must be pleased. He thinks the crime has gone undetected, because everyone is assuming the mare is to blame. What happens if the body-washer notices this wound?’
‘I disguised it, and Mistress Starre is not the curious type anyway. What shall we do now?’
‘Visit the Angel and ask questions about Ocleye. He is a townsman, so his death is none of my affair, but your discovery suggests the matter might bear some probing.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to walk more briskly. ‘And while we are there, we can ask if anyone has seen Blankpayn.’
The Angel was set back from the road, separated from it by a pretty courtyard with a well. It was a substantial building, and offered rooms for travellers, as well as stabling for horses. It was known for clean bedding, sweet ale and generous breakfasts, as well as its famous pies, so was popular with visitors and locals alike. The main chamber was a large, busy place that smelled of pastry and woodsmoke. The flagstone floor was always scrupulously swept, and any spillages were immediately mopped up by Candelby’s army of polite, well-dressed pot-boys.
The tavern was full for a morning when there was work to be done, but Bartholomew soon saw why. Candelby was in a chair near the hearth, holding forth. Sitting across from him was another familiar figure. Arderne was looking pleased with himself. He wore his scarlet robes, and through a window Bartholomew could see his brightly painted cart parked in the yard at the back of the tavern.
‘You want a pie?’ asked a yellow-haired pot-boy. He spoke softly, so as not to disturb the listeners. ‘But be warned: Master Candelby says we cannot sell them to scholars any more, unless they pay triple.’
Michael grimaced. ‘I wondered how long it would be before he decided to use his pies against us. But I am here to see your master, not to eat. You can talk to me while we wait for him to finish his yarn. How well did you know Ocleye?’
‘Not very,’ admitted the lad. ‘He came to work here fairly recently, and tended to keep himself apart from the rest of us. He was decent, though, and always shared the pennies he got from our customers, so we all liked him. I am sorry he was murdered by one of your lot.’
‘And I am sorry he stabbed a scholar,’ retorted Michael. ‘But, as we have lost a man apiece, I hope the matter will end there. I do not suppose you have seen Blankpayn, have you? He seems to have gone missing – as has one of our students.’
‘Falmeresham,’ said the boy, nodding. ‘Carton came here last night, asking if we had seen him.’
‘And had you?’ asked Bartholomew.
The lad shook his head, starting to move away. ‘I saw him make a dive for Blankpayn, but then those Carmelite novices rushed me, and my attention was taken with fending them off.’
Bartholomew watched him go, then turned his attention to the gathering by the hearth. Candelby was still speaking, and his audience was listening in rapt admiration. Arderne looked like a cat that had swallowed the cream, relishing the awed looks that were continuously thrown in his direction.
‘So Magister Arderne took his feather and tapped it three times on my left hand,’ said Candelby. ‘At first, nothing happened. Then there was a great roaring, and my senses reeled. I heard a snap, and when I opened my eyes, there was my arm as whole and sound as it had ever been.’
‘Did it hurt?’ asked Isnard the bargeman. It was a tavern, so Bartholomew was not surprised to see Isnard there. The chorister-bargeman liked ale, and his missing leg meant work was not always available, so he often had time to squander in such places.
‘Not one bit,’ declared Candelby. ‘I thought it would – bone-setting is a painful process, as many of us can attest. But when Magister Arderne cured me with his feather, I felt nothing.’
‘Does he cure anything else?’ asked Agatha. Bartholomew was surprised to see Michaelhouse’s laundress in the Angel, because taverns tended to be the domain of men – and prostitutes – and she should not have been there. However, as she was larger than most male patrons, and infamous for her touchy temper and powerful fists, no one was likely to oust her.
‘I have remedies for all manner of ailments,’ announced Arderne grandly. ‘Why? Is there something you would like me to repair? Or does your question relate to my other skills – for example, my ability to restore beauty to those of mature years?’
‘I have no need of beauty potions,’ said Agatha, astonished by the implication that she might. There was absolute silence as men held their breaths, lest even the merest sigh be misinterpreted. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of Agatha. ‘But I would not mind a love potion.’
There was another taut silence, and the man sitting next to her gulped. He glanced at the door, as if assessing his chances of making a successful dash for it.
‘I can provide you with one of those,’ said Arderne, quickly regaining his composure. ‘Of course, it will be expensive. Good remedies always are, which is why you should distrust the low fees of men like Robin of Grantchester. You get what you pay for in the world of medicine.’
‘Is Robin cheap?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew. ‘I always thought him rather pricey.’
‘I would say he is about average. I wonder why Agatha wants this potion.’
‘It is for Father William,’ said Michael with a malicious snigger. His chortling stopped abruptly as another possibility occurred to him. ‘God and all His saints preserve us! I hope it is not for me!’
‘Do you see yourself as irresistible to portly matrons then, Brother?’
Michael pursed his lips. ‘I am irresistible to anyone. Powerful men always attract that sort of attention – just ask the King.’
Bartholomew laughed, appreciating a brief moment of levity in what had been a bleak few hours. Unfortunately, Arderne heard him. The healer stood suddenly and began to stalk towards them.
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael, as the tavern’s patrons started to look around, to see where he was going. ‘I wanted to catch Candelby alone, and we cannot risk a confrontation with this arrogant peacock. Do not let him goad you into an indiscretion, Matt. Not here.’
‘Why would he want to argue with me?’
‘Because Beadle Meadowman told me last night that Arderne has engineered public quarrels with all your medical colleagues – Robin, Paxtone, Rougham and Lynton. You have only escaped his vitriol because you have been busy teaching. Of course, the others are easy targets, and you will be far more difficult to harm. That means he will probably strike you hardest of all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Rougham is arrogant and objectionable, Lynton was narrow-minded, and Robin is a repellent creature, to put it mildly. Paxtone is competent – just – but the Cambridge medici are, on the whole, an unprepossessing shower. You are by far the best, so Arderne will see you as his most dangerous opponent. He will want to silence you as soon as possible.’
Bartholomew regarded him in surprise. ‘Silence me about what?’
‘About his dubious claims that a feather can mend broken bones, for a start. Here he comes. Be on your guard – and remember that we have a killer to catch. We have no time to waste on spats.’
‘Speak of the Devil and he will appear,’ drawled Arderne, as he approached. His unblinking eyes shone oddly, and his long black hair tumbled from under his red hat. ‘I was just saying how the people of Cambridge have been badly served by dirty surgeons and ignorant physicians since the plague, and here is one of them.’